


Fury

by MonsieurClavier



Series: Tomarrymort Stories [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alliances, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dimension Travel, Don't copy to another site, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, First Love, Flirting, Foe Yay, Good Harry Potter, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Hogwarts Chamber of Secrets, M/M, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Nature Versus Nurture, No Horcruxes, No Voldemort, Obsession, Opposites Attract, POV Tom Riddle, Plotty, Politics, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Tom Riddle, Protective Tom Riddle, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Rebellion, Redemption, Revolution, Revolutionaries, Romance, SOCIAL JUSTICE TOM FTW, Sane Tom Riddle, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Snark, Sociopath Tom Riddle, Strategy & Tactics, Time Travel, Tom And Hagrid Are BFFs, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Yes you read that right, a tom that was raised with love, and is therefore slightly more reasonable, but he won’t laugh while torturing them, but he’s still a lil bitch, i mean he still kills people, lol, tom basically leads the wizarding version of antifa, tom isn’t full balls-to-the-wall psychopathic, what I mean to say is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24783928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsieurClavier/pseuds/MonsieurClavier
Summary: Raised by his doting Muggle grandparents, Tom Riddle grows up hating purebloods, not Muggles. Still as vicious and sociopathic as ever, he is determined to stage a violent insurrection against pureblood supremacy. As he rises to power in Slytherin, he recruits every disenfranchised Muggleborn and halfblood against the purebloods that have traditionally controlled his house.After opening the Chamber of Secrets, Tom organises his followers into a covert revolutionary vanguard known only as the Chosen. Delving into the Dark Arts, Tom searches not for horcruxes but for disturbing new ways of devouring the magic of purebloods, adding it to his own. He will use any means necessary to eradicate what he believes is a drain on magic itself—pureblood society’s obsession with blood purity.Then, in Tom’s sixth year, a powerful halfblood named Harry Haywood appears at Hogwarts and seems to hate Tom on sight, even though they both agree that purebloods like Grindelwald are dangerous maniacs who should be stopped.Mystified and intrigued by this potential new ally, Tom seeks to recruit Harry into the Chosen, but things don’t go exactly as planned...
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Tomarrymort Stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798186
Comments: 107
Kudos: 584
Collections: literally amazing i could read these over and over





	1. The Heir

It was an hour after dinner on a Thursday, and as was usual for Thursday evenings, the Chamber of Secrets was open. Within it sat a motley group of students from various houses, all gathered before the heir of Slytherin. The heir himself was clad handsomely, his school robes cast aside to reveal a form-fitting grey waistcoat and crisp ivory shirt-sleeves that ended in snake-shaped, silver cufflinks. His matching grey trousers had a distinctly Muggle cut, with faint green pinstripes on them that any pureblood would have disdained. Purebloods preferred older, duller fashions. And Tom Riddle was no pureblood.

Everything Tom said or did or seemed was a statement. He was creating what the Muggles called a “brand,” a recognisable set of visual cues that would trigger people to think what he wanted them to think. He’d spent the Christmas holidays reading two recently published books on public manipulation by a Muggle genius called [Edward Bernays](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Bernays), who Tom regarded as a modern-day Machiavelli, and whose methods Tom applied assiduously to every element of his appearance and to every one of his mannerisms—and, of course, to his words.

With a calm, ringing voice that echoed throughout the chamber, Tom said, “Purebloods are the death of magic. We must be its guardians.”

A murmur ran through the ranks of students. Most of them were Slytherins, halfbloods and Muggleborns from Tom’s own house who’d been hexed and tormented by their pureblood counterparts for far too long. However, there were members of other houses, too, a smattering of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and even, in one extraordinary case, a Gryffindor.

Tom smiled at Rubeus Hagrid, who sat conspicuously in the centre of the gathering, nearly double the height of the other students even though he was just fourteen. His half-giant blood endeared him to Tom, as much as anybody could endear themselves to him; Hagrid was a seminal example of wild magic manifesting in someone of so-called “impure” blood, and as such, he was living proof that Tom’s thinking was correct.

Besides, Hagrid had proven to be Tom’s most useful recruit yet. If it hadn’t been for Hagrid’s help, Tom may not have succeeded in shrinking the Basilisk and smuggling it out of Hogwarts and into the relative safety of the Forbidden Forest, where it still subsisted under a series of protective invisibility wards that restricted it to a wooded area that was triple the size of the chamber and thus gave it more freedom of movement. When Tom had told Hagrid that they would have to lie to Dumbledore and Dippet about the chamber having been empty when it was first opened—and the Basilisk long dead, decayed and gone—Hagrid had cooperated without hesitation. Conversely, Tom’s dedication to saving the Basilisk at all costs had endeared Tom to Hagrid, who loved magical beasts with a passion that bordered on obsession.

Tom understood obsession. What he couldn’t understand was how anyone could tolerate life without it.

It was their joint rescue of the Basilisk that had convinced Hagrid that Tom might be a leader worth following, and Tom, in turn, was considering doing Hagrid the favour of recruiting more Gryffindors. There had been an intriguing new Gryffindor named Harry Haywood who had just been sorted into the house after transferring into Hogwarts in his sixth year, and Tom had an eye on him. And not just because he was pretty—Harry had remarkable green eyes that glittered like gems, and a frame so delicate that a stray breeze might carry him away—but because Harry had _power_ , a magic that stirred the very air around him like the breaths of a great, sleeping beast. Tom wondered what would happen if the beast was awakened.

It was a tempting thought, having the source of that power here, in Tom’s Chamber, under Tom’s command and submitting to Tom’s control. Tom was accustomed to taming great beasts; he’d tamed a Basilisk, for Merlin’s sake. Harry would be no challenge. Nobody that Tom had set out to charm had ever resisted him. Soon, Harry would be amongst Tom’s core loyalists, drawn irresistibly to the Chamber of Secrets just to get a glimpse of Tom.

Tom could, theoretically, have used the Room of Requirement to host his revolutionary meetings. It would have been subtler. Less gauche. But subtlety, while useful for subterfuge, was less useful for outright revolt. Tom wanted to send a message to those filthy purebloods, wanted, with every meeting he held here, to thumb his proverbial nose at them. Let them quiver with rage and froth at the mouth every time he dared to hold a meeting of Muggleborns and halfbloods _here_ , in the Chamber of Secrets. Let them shudder with disgust at Salazar Slytherin’s chamber being openly and blatantly used by a halfblood heir, to foment rebellion against the very pureblood supremacy that Salazar had espoused.

So Tom stood here, before the towering statue of Salazar himself, amid the dank, dripping menace of the chamber, although he had illuminated its cavernous depths by charming false windows into its ceiling. Even the flood of brightness could not quite cure the chamber of its deathly ambiance. Every ray of light somehow turned the pillars and carved serpents pale and ghostly, covered as they were with a white layer of dust, as if coated in the ashes from a funeral pyre. Tom had never bothered to clean the chamber after removing the Basilisk from it. He _wanted_ its age, its ancient roots, to be visible to every one of his followers. He wanted them to know that he himself carried an ancient legacy, even as he planned to use it to overturn the equally ancient bigotry of pureblood supremacy.

Tom wanted to call attention to his heritage, but only to discount any sway it had over him, or indeed over anybody else. The chamber was a relic, as was the ideology Tom sought to destroy. He wanted his followers to see this, to know this, every time he summoned them here.

When he was done with the world, it wouldn’t remember Tom as the heir of Slytherin. It would scarcely remember the name of Salazar Slytherin at all, except as an embarrassment, a lingering shame that one of the founders of Hogwarts had once been so foolish as to insist on excluding Muggleborns from the school.

No, the world would remember Tom Riddle as _Tom Riddle_. He’d long since abandoned the “Marvolo” that used to be his middle name, because he couldn’t abide the pureblood side of his ancestry, let alone acknowledge it. He’d burnt the Gaunts to their deaths, and he wasn’t about to allow them to keep on living through him. They’d ended in the fire he’d cast on their home, and there they would stay, reduced to charred bones and hollow skulls.

He could only hope they continued burning in hell. Quaint as that Muggle belief was, it gave Tom comfort in those long hours of the night when it seemed that the only two things awake were Tom and Tom’s fury.

Now, in the Chamber of Secrets, surrounded by a crew of two dozen students of various ages and houses, united only by the fact that they were against purebloods, Tom’s fury was finally, if temporarily, soothed. Here, he could glimpse the future—a future devoid of purebloods—and it made him smile.

He held out his hands, open, welcoming, and his followers looked upon him with adoration. He wasn’t just their leader; he was their friend. He knew, personally, each of their stories of tragedy and persecution at the hands of the purebloods.

In reality, his interest in them only stretched as far as learning enough about them to manipulate them, and his friendship was a sham he had no intention of honouring beyond the general protectiveness of a good leader towards his minions. But they didn’t need to know that. To them, he was the sun, as bright and warm as the light that cascaded down upon them from above, from the cathedral-like, arching windows that Tom had spelled into existence overhead.

The light from those windows was as artificial as Tom’s charm, but what did that matter, when it was effective? A tool wielded in honesty or dishonesty was still a tool. A hammer could still pound the nails shut on a coffin, regardless of whether it was wielded by a saint’s hand or a devil’s.

And it was the coffin of pureblood supremacy that Tom sought to nail shut.

Preferably with the purebloods still locked inside it, screaming and scratching and gradually suffocating to death. The Gaunts _had_ screamed most memorably.

Tom imagined his pureblood housemates doing the same, back in the Slytherin dorms, and his smile widened.

The students seated in front of him, on the soft rug he’d conjured atop the chamber’s cold floor, smiled back.

“My friends,” he addressed them, still holding his hands out as if in benediction. He’d seen the Muggle pope perform a gesture like that on television, once, in grainy black-and-grey, and he reproduced its gentleness, its seeming compassion as closely as he could. After all, he could hardly start a religion if he didn’t learn from its more successful models. “We are gathered here today to help save magic. You and I, together. For we know that if we do not make a stand, magic will die, and take us with it.”

The newest member, a fourth-year Ravenclaw girl named Arianne Dougherty, raised a tentative hand, as if unsure of whether or not to treat a revolutionary meeting like a classroom lesson. “I… I agree that purebloods are arseholes,” she said, and those around her laughed in agreement. “But how exactly are they the death of magic?”

“An excellent question.” Tom straightened. This was the lynchpin of his entire philosophy, and what distinguished it from mere idle conjecture. This was a rallying cry. A call to arms.“Purebloods are inbred, unstable and increasingly magically infertile. They claim to possess pure magic, but they lie. Naturally occurring magic in Muggleborns is the true pure magic, spontaneously manifested and untainted by centuries of inbreeding. Halfbloods, too, have this wild magic in them, not the sickly, dying breed of magic so desperately guarded by the purebloods. No wonder they guard it so jealously, given how weak it is. How weak _they_ are. They must be stopped. We must save the wizarding world from their stifling influence, before magic is choked to death in their grip.”

This time, the silence rang like a gong. A familiar light had flickered to life in Arianne’s eyes, and in the eyes of all those present—they had heard Tom’s call, and they were answering it. They recognised the truth for what it was, and they wanted to act on it.

Arianne asked no more questions. She was a Muggleborn whose parents had narrowly escaped being killed in Grindelwald’s latest attack; really, if Tom hadn’t hated Grindelwald so much for taking his own beloved grandparents from him, he’d have thanked the man for supplying him with so many eager followers. At least three-fourths of Tom’s followers had been directly impacted by Grindelwald.

According to Dippet’s droning speech at lunch yesterday, in which Harry Haywood had been introduced to the school, Harry was a Grindelwald survivor as well. And Haywood was an obviously Muggle name. That would make the recruitment process go even smoother. All Tom had to do was spew anti-Grindelwald rhetoric where Harry could hear him, and he’d have the Gryffindor eating out of his palm.

It was a pleasant mental image, in more ways than one. Harry _did_ have a soft, pleasingly vulnerable mouth.

But Harry was also Dumbledore’s ward, so Tom would have to tread carefully. Dumbledore claimed to have adopted Harry several months ago, after the home-schooled boy’s parents were murdered by Grindelwald’s supporters, but Tom had sensed deceit in Dumbledore’s pronouncement. Tom hadn’t gained this insight through Legilimency—he wasn’t so stupid as to try sneaking into Dumbledore’s armed fortress of a mind—but through that gift Tom had always had, of discerning lies from the truth.

And given how brittle and strange Harry had seemed yesterday, clearly still traumatised by the deaths of his parents, Dumbledore had not succeeded in mending the places where Harry had been broken.

Perhaps Tom would succeed where Dumbledore hadn’t. Having this victory over the man—this very personal, very intimate victory—would be delicious.

As delicious as Harry’s lush little mouth.

***

“As you all know,” Dumbledore announced at breakfast the next day, “Harry Haywood, my ward, has been admitted into Hogwarts and has been sorted into Gryffindor. However,” and here, he glanced at Harry, who was sitting as stiff as a board at the Gryffindor table, “it has come to our attention that Harry requires a room of his own, outside of Gryffindor. He has been given a spare room in Gryffindor Tower, where the prefects of previous generations were housed. I ask you all to be accommodating of his circumstances.”

The Great Hall exploded into whispers. Leaning subtly closer to the Hufflepuff table, which in turn was adjacent to the Gryffindors, Tom overheard a rumour—that Harry had such violent nightmares and manifested such vicious accidental magic that it was not safe for his fellow Gryffindors if he shared their dorm.

Interesting. Very interesting. Harry was doing an excellent job of alienating himself from his peers, which would make it easier for Tom to insert himself into the lonely boy’s good graces. That Harry had his own room would only render him more accessible. Not to mention that, if Harry’s magic was that powerful even in sleep, when Harry was unconscious, then it would be devastating if unleashed deliberately, while Harry was awake. Promising, indeed.

Tom peered down the length of the Slytherin table. The purebloods were all clumped together at the far end, pointedly separate from the halfbloods and Muggleborns that surrounded Tom. It always pleased Tom to note that his side of the table was more populous. A sign of changing times. Of the purebloods’ dwindling power.

“Eileen,” he said to Eileen Prince, the only pureblood that had been permitted to join his ranks, on account of her rather vehement support of—and romantic interest in—Muggles. She was a seventh-year with a Muggle fiancé, and had been publicly disowned by her family for being a blood traitor. It was a humiliation in the eyes of pureblood society but a vindication in the eyes of Tom. Accepting her into his group was a signal to the ever-weakening purebloods that Tom _could_ be magnanimous, if only his enemies repented, if only they turned their backs on pureblood tradition utterly and completely. If only they committed to birthing no more purebloods. “Keep an eye on the younglings. I will return shortly.”

Eileen nodded and kept a watchful, beady eye on the Muggleborn first-years and second-years at Tom’s end of the table, because they were the most likely to be targeted by the cowardly purebloods. Tom had never been much of a mother hen, but he’d be damned if he let a single child under his protection come to harm.

With his charges taken care of, Tom got up and ambled over to the Gryffindor table, his hands in his pockets, the very picture of relaxation. When he slid casually onto the bench beside Hagrid—which was, incidentally, the seat opposite Harry’s—he saw Harry flinch as though at the sight of a rabid Hippogriff.

Again, interesting. Very, very interesting. Had Dumbledore filled Harry’s impressionable head with nonsense about how Tom could not be trusted, simply because he was the heir of Slytherin?

Tom could remedy that. The best way of winning a suspicious person’s trust was often by proxy—by showing them that one was trustworthy to other people.

“Rubeus,” he greeted Hagrid warmly, and noticed Harry’s eyes dart to him in shock. “Would you do me the honour of looking out for my fourth-years in Care of Magical Creatures? The Muggleborns especially are new to the subject, and to magical creatures in general. You’ll be sharing the class with them, this year. Your kindness and your wisdom will be much appreciated, as always.”

Hagrid puffed up with pride, which made him appear even bigger. He’d be imposing if Tom didn’t know how much of a sentimental milksop he was. “’Course, Tom. Whatever yeh like. Your young ’uns are such darlings ter look after.”

Tom doubted that his fourth-year Slytherins were _darlings_ , given that he’d been teaching them Dark curses to defend themselves against the purebloods—who’d been taught the Dark Arts from birth, and thus had an unfair advantage—but he allowed Hagrid his delusions. Particularly the delusions that were convenient for Tom. “Thank you, my friend. I can never thank you enough.”

They exchanged a significant smile, because they shared the secret of the Basilisk, a secret that no-one else had any inkling of.

Harry, meanwhile, was gaping at Tom and Hagrid as if at a circus.

Tom finally extended his hand for Harry to shake. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Harry. May I call you Harry?” Tom didn’t wait for Harry’s answer, which he was certain would be in the negative, at this stage. “I haven’t had the pleasure of speaking with you yet. My name is Tom Riddle.”

Harry actually inched backwards on his bench—any further and he’d fall off the bench altogether. He very noticeably didn’t take Tom’s hand, which Tom kept where it was.

But those eyes… Harry’s eyes were hard, like old stones, their green glitter polished and sharp. The line of his jaw was stubborn. He wasn’t inching away from Tom because he was afraid. Oh, no. It was more as though he was repulsed.

Nobody, _nobody_ , had ever been repulsed by Tom Riddle.

Until now.

Tom’s smile froze. “Harry?”

“I have to go.” Harry shot off the bench and out of the Great Hall like a Snitch with a Seeker after it.

Tom was left hanging there, like a fool, with his hand still outstretched.

He’d been rejected.

Well.

_This_ called for drastic action.

Or, as Tom put it, aggressive recruitment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, Harry has travelled back _and_ across in time, to an alternate timeline in which Tom Riddle is not what he expects. And all because Tom was raised with love. The details will be revealed soon.
> 
> The two “recently published books” that Tom mentions by Edward Bernays are: [_Crystallizing Public Opinion_](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/61364/61364-h/61364-h.htm) (1923) and [_Propaganda_](https://www.voltairenet.org/IMG/pdf/Bernays_Propaganda_in_english_.pdf) (1928). Both are stunningly insightful texts about how to manipulate public opinion, which, of course, is what Tom’s all about. As _Propaganda_ states: “The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country.” And Tom wants to be “the true ruling power” of the wizarding world, so…
> 
> And, yeah, the term “brand” didn’t exist in Tom’s time in the way that Tom uses it here, but this _is_ an alternate universe, so I figured I’d make commercial “branding” a popular concept way ahead of its time. Television is ahead of its time, too, by a decade or so.
> 
> Oh, and I’ve made Eileen Prince a lot older than she is in canon, and I’ve made Care of Magical Creatures a class that’s only taught from fourth-year onwards. But you’ve probably already noticed that.
> 
> Next up: Tom’s backstory! And some “aggressive recruitment.” (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. The Looking Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback chapter. It goes into Tom’s backstory. After this, it’ll be full-throttle Tom/Harry as we return to the main plot!
> 
>  **Warning:** This chapter contains a brief discussion of rape, i.e. Merope Gaunt feeding Tom Riddle Senior a love potion. It’s in the section titled “Five years ago,” so you can skip it if you wish.

***

**Eleven years ago.**

“And that,” said Grandma, in the crisp, clean way she had of ending stories, “was how the crow convinced everyone he was a nightingale after stealing the nightingale’s voice.”

“That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.” Tom prided himself on knowing the word ‘ludicrous’ at the age of five. “Couldn’t they _see_ he was a crow? His wings were black.”

Grandma sighed. “That wasn’t the point of the story, Tom.”

“Yes, yes. The point of the story was that if you lie cleverly enough, you can convince people of anything.”

Grandma studied him from where she sat beside him on his bed. “You know, child, sometimes you worry me. The crow may pretend to be a nightingale, but it is not a nightingale. It is a thief.”

“Point taken,” Tom admitted grudgingly. “Perhaps the crow should have befriended the nightingale and had it sing his songs for him. Then they’d both be who they were and the crow would still be admired for his words.”

Grandma massaged her forehead, as if to stall an oncoming headache. “Goodness me, is it nine o’clock already? Far past your bedtime.”

“ _You_ were the one telling me made-up stories.”

“And _you_ were the one dissecting them in ever more disturbing ways.”

They grinned at each other.

“Mary,” said Grandpa from the door to Tom’s bedroom, his tone both fond and exasperated. “Let the lad sleep. He’s got a recital tomorrow.”

Tom did, in fact, have a piano recital at ten tomorrow morning, although he didn’t much care for music beyond excelling at it as he did at all things. Occasionally the keys even played without him pressing them, although Tom had managed to conceal that particular anomaly from his tutors. Proudly, Tom stated, “I’ll be a nightingale, Grandpa, because I’ll be making music.” Then he paused. “But I’m not sure it’s safe to be a nightingale. Everyone will want my voice. I’d rather be a crow and steal someone else’s.”

Grandpa gawked at him incredulously, and then turned to glower at his wife. “What nonsense have you been telling the boy?”

“Nothing but silly little fables! I certainly didn’t expect him to start applying them to his life like religious edicts.” Grandma took off her spectacles and scrubbed them clean of smudges with her nightgown. “Tom, dear, it’s lovely how you absorb everything we say to you so very deeply, but, well, sometimes words are just words.”

Tom frowned at her. “Words are _never_ just words.”

“You see?” Grandma beamed at Grandpa. “Our budding politician. Or linguist. Or Nobel Prize-winning poet.”

Grandpa muttered something under his breath before walking up to Tom’s bed and hugging him tightly, drawing Grandma into the hug as well.

“We’re proud of you, Tom,” Grandpa murmured, his breath ghosting over Tom’s hair. “And we love you. No matter whether you’re a crow or a nightingale. Or both. Or neither. We love you for who you are.”

Those words would haunt Tom, years later—their truth, their warmth, their enormity.

He had once been loved.

***

**Six years ago.**

Tom’s magic had begun manifesting very early. According to Grandma, he’d performed his first bit of magic by making the bars on his crib disappear. And, once, by summoning his bottle of milk to him so forcefully that it smacked him on the nose and set him crying.

He must’ve been quite the handful.

But as he got older, Tom began to notice that his grandparents recoiled subtly from his magic. It was slight, so slight that Tom almost wasn’t sure it was happening, but the fact that it eventually went away proved that it _had_ been there at the start.

It wasn’t a surprise. Tom knew that his mother had been magical, and that she’d committed some terrible crime, a crime that had resulted in Tom being an orphan. So Tom understood where his grandparents’ fear came from.

To a shallower child, it may have seemed like a rejection, a betrayal, but Tom knew better. His grandparents loved him _despite_ fearing his magic, and as far as Tom was concerned, that was proof of just how deeply they loved him. They loved him so unconditionally that even their own fears would not stop them from loving him, from protecting him, from being there for him. They conquered their fears for him, and that, Tom realised, was true love.

He wondered if anyone else would ever conquer their fears for him.

Or if he’d ever do the same for them. The only fear Tom had to conquer was death. It was the inevitable result of growing up in the midst of a war. In the midst of air raids and sirens and bombings.

Grandma, as it turned out, knew plenty about fears—and said so. The night Tom got his Hogwarts letter, his grandmother held him, and held him, and held him, as if trying to make up for the time that Tom would be away.

And that was when Grandma made her confession. It was simple, and honest, and spoken into Tom’s ear with tenderness and regret. Tom wasn’t afraid, though, because he was wrapped up in her embrace, pressed against her soft, woolly cardigan, enveloped in her perfume-and-talcum-powder scent. He knew he was safe.

“I’m so sorry we feared your magic, Tom. Before we understood what it was. But I want you to know that we never feared you. You,” she cupped his face in her hands and looked at him seriously, “are not your mother. You will never be your mother. She misused the magic given to her. You will not. I have raised you too well for that.”

“ _You_ have raised me?” Tom quipped, feebly, to make up for how his heart was lodged in his throat. “No credit to Grandpa whatsoever, I see. I wonder what he’ll have to say about that.”

“Hush, you.” Grandma kissed him on the brow. “We’ll fetch your school supplies tomorrow. I’m quite excited to see this Diagon Alley. It was very kind of Headmaster Dippet to send us the directions.”

“You… don’t have to go,” said Tom, awkwardly, hating that he was awkward. One day, he promised himself, he wouldn’t be awkward at all. Everything he did would be smooth and practiced, a sign of his mastery over himself. “It might be scary. All that magic.”

“Oh, darling, you don’t have to worry about protecting me.” Grandma gave him another kiss. “And I’m not scared of magic anymore. It’s a part of you, and I’m not scared of anything that’s a part of you.” She smiled. “I _am_ excited. Not just for you, but for me. Imagine all the things we’ll see! All sorts of floating things, flying things. Maybe we’ll even see flying broomsticks.” She laughed. “I used to dream of flying like a witch, when I was your age! And now, I might see you flying, too.” True, unblemished joy sparkled in her eyes. “It’s a thing of wonder, Tom. Magic. I want you to never fear it, not even on our behalf. I want you to enjoy it wholeheartedly, love it wholeheartedly. Like you love us.”

Tom blushed. He did love them, although he felt odd about it, for some reason. As though his love was a stubborn plant that had been forced to break through the arid ground of his heart, which was not well-watered by sentiment, nor naturally given to attachment. Tom did not _care_ about other people the way most children did; he didn’t have friends, and he didn’t want any. His grandparents were enough.

Unfortunately, Grandpa would be unable to join the jaunt to Diagon Alley. In recent years, he’d begun to forget names and places. The doctors said it was dementia. He still remembered Grandma and Tom, thankfully, although he often got their ages wrong. His joints were painfully arthritic, too, lumpy and swollen, given that he was a whole fifteen years older than Grandma. Grandma comforted him by saying that she’d bring him back souvenirs from Diagon Alley.

“Sweets,” Grandpa declared, as though he was the eleven-year-old. “I want magical sweets.”

Tom was determined to find him the most magical, most ridiculous sweets he could.

***

**Five years ago.**

It was a week into his first Hogwarts holiday that Grandma finally told him the truth.

Tom had guessed at it, glimpsed it in his grandmother’s unguarded mind like flashes of brightly-coloured fish under swift-flowing water—the memories she’d been carrying all this time, hiding all this time. And all for the sake of protecting Tom.

As a novice Legilimens, he’d already seen, in her mind, the blood splattering the living room walls, the sight of his father’s body crumpled on the floor alongside his mother’s. A murder-suicide. That’s what it was called, what Tom’s barbaric, unstable, pureblood mother had done to the Riddles. What she’d done to _Tom_.

But that was only half the story, the half he got from Grandma, who could bear to tell him no more. It had hurt her enough to say what she had, and Tom loved her too much to pry the rest from her mind and damage it in the process. He’d only ever picked at her surface thoughts; he would go no deeper. She had clearly decided to shield him from the worst of his past.

No, the _other_ half of the story, which Tom would hear three years later from a delirious, decrepit, drunkenly laughing Morfin Gaunt—yet another example of pureblood scum—was that Tom’s mother hadn’t just been a murderer. She’d been a rapist.

She’d forced Tom Riddle Senior to marry her, had repeatedly raped him under the influence of a love potion until he’d impregnated her, and had murdered him for trying to get away from her. Oh, and she’d murdered herself, too, abandoning the very child she’d birthed.

That was what purebloods were. That was why Tom hated them. All of them.

Including the Gaunts. Instead of taking in Merope and her newborn son, they’d accused her of “breeding” with Muggles and had made her leave her “unclean” offspring at a Muggle orphanage. It was this, apparently, that had finally driven Merope to such dire straits that she’d tracked her once-husband down to his parents’ home, killed him, and killed herself immediately afterwards. Shocked by the horrific murder-suicide and devastated by the loss of their only child, the elderly Riddles had searched desperately for their grandson with the help of the Muggle police, and had eventually rescued him from the orphanage a mere five days after his birth.

Tom could have had it worse. He could have been left there, in that orphanage, forever. Poor and disadvantaged and alone. Instead, he’d grown up in the lap of luxury, watched over by doting Muggle grandparents who would deny him nothing.

But all the love he was given was now tainted by the knowledge of what his mother was. What she’d _done_.

Grandma was right. Tom would never be like his mother. Tom would never force love, or intimacy, upon another human being. He would never besmirch magic in that way. The only love Tom would accept would be freely given, like the love his grandparents had for each other. Like the love they had for him.

***

**Two years ago.**

Tom was fourteen when his grandparents were snatched away from him. He lost them in an attack on Muggle London by the pureblood supremacist, Grindelwald.

There was an explosion at Charing Cross station, where Tom happened to be with his grandparents during the holidays. They’d planned to take a family trip. Tom only escaped injury by virtue of being farther away at the time, at the ticket booth, buying their tickets while Grandma and Grandpa waited by the platform.

The platform where the blast occurred.

There was a deafening _boom_ that shook the pillars, that had plaster raining down on them all. Initially, Tom thought it was a bombing. That it was the Germans. But no, that couldn’t explain the aftershocks of magic that rippled outwards from the centre of the explosion. That couldn’t explain how Dark the magic was.

Tom turned from the ticket booth in horrified slow motion, like a fly trapped in amber. The bench where Grandma and Grandpa had been sitting was gone. It had exploded into fragments. Their bodies had been flung to the far side of the station, torn flesh seared black and singed clothing stained red. There was the distinct stench of cooking meat. Tom saw Grandma’s green dress through the smoke, unmoving.

He couldn’t hear anything. His ears were ringing from the blast. His mind was an empty, boiling space. Everything around him seemed choppy, blurry. There must be tears in his eyes.

He ran.

He ran towards them, towards the source of the blast, without any instinct for self-preservation.

So he’d loved them after all. He’d _loved_ —

He knew they were dying. He could feel it, his magic arcing through the air ahead of him, feeling out their fluttering pulses, their failing organs. He could not stop it. He was too late. They were too damaged, too broken, although he felt more broken than either of them. His grief was a barbed, pulsing wire wrapped around his heart, squeezing until it bled.

Tom fell to his knees when he got to them. Scraped his palms on the debris. He hunched over, shuddering, gasping, bile rising up his throat. Perhaps he should have touched them, soothed them, but he was too shattered to do anything but stare. He didn’t dare disturb them. They were crossing over into death, and it seemed, in that moment, sacred. Tom was only a witness. A stranger. He could not intrude. He could not let them see him.

Tom’s grandparents died holding each other’s hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.

Grandpa’s eyes faded first. Grandma sobbed, curling her hand around his with the last of her strength. It was as if her soul could not help but follow his, because she went after him, looking at him as she died. At the end, at the very end, a sigh of relief left her, as if even those few seconds without her beloved had been agony. And as her spirit fled, she almost seemed to smile. As though she could see him, waiting for her there, in the beyond.

That was when something within Tom changed forever. Beneath his wrath and his devastation was a strange, dawning wonder. Because it was then that Tom understood love. It was only then he understood how absolute it was, and how profound, that even dying was preferable to being without one’s mate. That death itself couldn’t be an obstacle to love. Not for long.

Thus, that was when Tom stopped fearing death.

If one loved and was loved, even death was not to be feared. Death only meant a continuation of that companionship, that togetherness. Death was only a journey between one sort of union and another. Death wasn’t anything to fear. It wasn’t _worthy_ of his fear.

All Tom had to do was find love, the type his grandparents had shared, and he would have somebody he could follow even into death. Somebody who would follow him, in return.

But it wasn’t just love that Tom understood. Now, in a way he hadn’t before, he understood hate. Because he _burned_. He burned like the corpses who’d been closest to the blast. He burned with fury, that Grindelwald had done this, and that Dumbledore had allowed it to happen. The entire wizarding world knew that Dumbledore was the only wizard who could stop Grindelwald. And yet he hadn’t. Dumbledore’s inaction, his cowardice, had led to so many innocent Muggle deaths. Like Tom’s grandparents’ deaths. Dumbledore was responsible for them all, and Tom would never, ever forget.

***

What Tom would be most ashamed of, later, would be how, after the attack, he’d been stupid enough to seek comfort from his pureblood relatives. That he’d been weak and lonely enough to search out his mother’s family, hoping to be taken in by them, only to be reviled for being “impure.” Only to be told by his uncle, Morfin, that he was the unwanted product of a monstrous rape.

What Tom would be most proud of, later, was how, in a fit of rage, he’d murdered the Gaunts with a surge of Fiendfyre. Every last one of them, twisting and screaming in the flames. Tom had stood outside the house, close enough to feel the baking heat, and had listened to them. His hands had been shaking and his eyes had been wet, but he’d smiled.

He had permitted himself no other emotion, no other reaction.

He’d _smiled_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, I wonder if Harry is Tom’s nightingale? Don’t steal his voice, Tom! Befriend him instead.
> 
> Yes, Tom is already powerful enough to control Fiendfyre.
> 
> If you’re wondering who became Tom’s guardian after his grandparents died, you’ll get your answer soon! Along with all the other Tom/Harry yumminess that’s to come.
> 
> This is the first and only flashback chapter; there will be no more.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you can, I cherish every single one!


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